


everything returns to you somehow

by amainiris



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Study, Divorce, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Morty deserves Nice!Rick, Nice Rick, because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 22:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amainiris/pseuds/amainiris
Summary: The alcohol has made Morty stuporous, drowsy, so heavy he can barely lift his head."L-l-love doesn’t ever occur without pain and misery, kid,” Rick says bluntly, and now he’s almost close enough to cradle his grandson in an arm, and Morty kind of wishes he would. “Muh-maybe that’s one of the f-f-first things I should’ve taught you.”And then Morty is crying, crying for the first time since his parents told him of their divorce and the walls of his world had come crashing down, since he knew that his old life was gone and, beneath that grief, a great and monstrous fear:will he lose Rick, too?





	everything returns to you somehow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lemonshrimp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemonshrimp/gifts).

> _ Well, we know we had the good things _
> 
> _ But those never seemed to last _
> 
> _ Oh, please just last _
> 
>   
  


No one ever told him that grief feels so much like fear. 

Morty sits in the garage, huddled over, spine curved as if in an attempt to protect himself from what he knows he can’t. This is Rick’s space, really, not his -- but anyway, as the days pass he finds the gaps between them growing smaller and smaller, their similarities all the more profound for their differences. 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t known it was coming. You’d have be stupid ( _ even more stupid than me _ , Morty thinks dispiritedly) not to pick up on the not-so-subtle clues: slamming doors, brisk good-byes, but most of all the distance between his parents. The silences, Morty reflects, are the worst of all, louder than any sound, and he’s spent the past few days in his bedroom, mulling over books and comics but not really reading, staring at his bedroom ceiling, evading Summer’s gaze in the hallway. She doesn’t seem to have anything to say, either, because how could she?

And so now, on a too-hot Sunday afternoon, cicadas in the air, merciless blue sky, air-conditioning busted or turned off in an attempt by one of his parents to spite the other -- Morty finds himself in his parents’ garage, chin on knees, eyes wide open and seeing nothing in particular. Rick isn’t there, he acknowledges dully. At this recognition there’s an ache somewhere in his chest, because he’s lonely, not for anyone, but for  _ someone _ . Rick.

It wasn’t that he hasn’t looked for him. An hour earlier, he slipped into Rick’s room, searching it up and down, for once heedless of the consequences.

He can’t explain  _ why  _ he did it; not exactly.

Maybe, Morty thinks, it’s because he’s losing his parents, who never understood him; he can’t lose Rick, who, in his strange, fucked up way, always has.

Just as he’d been about to leave the little room, he’d cast his eyes over the sad little cot, spotted the stash of liquor beside it. If he’s not like his parents, if he’s not like Summer, why shouldn’t he be like Rick?

He’d pocketed a bottle of whiskey (fine, bourbon, like captured sunlight) and crept down to the dark lonely solace of the garage.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


The first taste is like swallowing fire; Morty has no idea how Rick does it. What he  _ does _ know is that it makes his grandfather’s life more bearable, easier lived, tolerable. Of course, Morty thinks to himself, Rick is a genius, and he’s not, so there may be some discrepancies there. 

It becomes easier the more he drinks; the pint dwindles, liquid, honey-gold, igniting a sweet warmth somewhere in his chest. He begins to think it’s not so bad; the pain eases, he forgets the desperation that drove him to this in the first place. Plus, it reminds him of Rick, and for some reason that’s comfort enough for now.

One swallow, two swallows, three. His head grows light, then heavy. Something stirs in his belly. The sharp edges of the table at his back bite through his flimsy t-shirt; his eyes flutter, lashes breaking like a wave on the skin of his cheek, haphazard, moth-light.

Then nothing.

  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


“M-Morty? W-what the  _ fuck,  _ kid--” Hands warm on his shoulders, alcohol sour on his breath -- Morty’s never been so  _ grateful  _ for that smell -- agitation, irrtation, but above all: concern _ . _ It’s like the first clear breath Morty has drawn for hours.

He feels like he’s underwater, like he’s smothered, drowning. Slowly his eyes open, and of course it’s not Jerry, it’s not Beth, it’s not Summer. It’s Rick, holding him carefully in his bloodshot eyes, something close to panic on his face. It barely registers.

“W-why the f-UU-ck did you d-do this, Morty?”

“I--I j-just wanted to be like you.”

“N-no, kid, no, fuck, n-no you don’t.” 

“W-why not?”

“B-because you’re a dumb little sh-shit but you’re better than this, you’re b-better than this, you understand? Figure your shit out, kid.” 

The words go unspoken: _because_ _you’re better than me._

But Morty doesn’t understand, not then. Rick kneels across from him, their knees brushing, and for an instant there’s almost something like compassion in his eyes. Morty’s breath hitches; because, in that moment, he’d do anything for a little compassion. 

“W-well, they’re d-divorcing, Rick, and I’m g-g-gonna be all--”

“Alone? Fuckkk it, k-kid, you’re not  _ alone--” _

The alcohol has made Morty stuporous, drowsy, so heavy he can barely lift his head. 

“L-l-love doesn’t ever occur without pain and misery, kid,” Rick says bluntly, and now he’s almost close enough to cradle his grandson in an arm, and Morty kind of wishes he would. “Muh-maybe that’s one of the f-f-first things I should’ve taught you.” 

And then Morty is crying, crying for the first time since his parents told him of their divorce and the walls of his world had come crashing down, since he knew that his old life was gone and, beneath that grief, a great and monstrous fear:  _ would he lose Rick, too? _

He’s shaking, though he isn’t cold, though the day is hot and merciless, the garage stifling. And then, to his absolute surprise he drunkenly senses Rick take off his lab coat, wrap it around his own shoulders, and somehow that’s the single sweetest kindness anyone has offered to him in days, weeks -- for as long as he can remember. And now Morty really is crying, but he just doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because he’s so unused to Rick being soft like this. Maybe it’s the knowledge that, just maybe, Rick loves him as much as he himself loves Rick.

It’s almost too much to think about.

“S-shit Morty,” Rick says, voice so soft that Morty knows he’s trying to be gentle. “I-I’m not gonna leave you, kid. I d-don’t know how.”

Morty leans in, presses his forehead against Rick’s shoulder like he’s never done before, but tragedy drives people to intimacies that would otherwise be unbearable. And it’s not unbearable at all, Morty thinks. It’s exactly what he wants. It’s exactly what he needs.

“You promise?”

“K-kid.” Rick pauses, and for a moment it seems as if the whole world is holding its breath. And then;

“I w-will never leave you. You’re the b-best part of me.” 

  
  



End file.
